


The Sweetest Hangover

by dreamkiller



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Black Character(s), Black Male Character, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Character of Color, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-10 14:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8920825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamkiller/pseuds/dreamkiller
Summary: Sam wakes up on a Friday in April, with the mother lode of hangovers, in a bed that’s not his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that there's drunken shenanigans but everything's consensual.
> 
> I haven't written in anything in soooo long and then I randomly got struck with inspiration and whacked this out within a few hours. So, like, please excuse any errors.
> 
> Oh, and if you're wondering, yes the title is from the Diana Ross song. Lol.

Sam wakes up on a Friday in April, with the mother lode of hangovers, in a bed that’s not his own.

A man is asleep in the bed beside him, bare-chested and drooling into his pillow. He looks tall, from the way in which his toes poke out from the end of the bed, and he’s blonde. He’s a lot more built than Sam really goes for in guys and he’s white, which is also new. He’s good looking, though, in a way that is kind of unavoidable. Like his attractiveness is just one of his defying characteristics, as much as his thick eyelashes and sand coloured hair.

The night before is mostly a blur. Sam can’t remember the guys name — or if they’d even exchanged names— but he remembers the sensation of hips against his and groans mumbled against his lips. He may have drunk a little too much.

He fumbles around for his phone, mostly naked, trying his best not to disturb the sleeping stranger beside him but too hung-over to really succeed. He eventually finds it in his jean pocket, slung halfway across the floor and as he crouches to get it, he gets another flash of memory of the two of them drunkenly stumbling through the door, mouths all over each other, clawing at each other’s clothes. He swiftly pushes the thought away. He’s too hung-over to deal with that right now.

A glance at his phone tells him that it’s past midday and it takes him precisely 5 seconds to realise that:

  1. He’s going to be late and
  2. Misty is going to kill him _._



Just on cue, Sam’s phone starts buzzing in his hand.

“Hi. Hey. Hello” Sam whispers, though he has never been great at what his mom calls his “indoor voice”. A glance across the room informs him that his attempts at stealth have been unsuccessful; Hot Guy stirs awake and a huge pair of baby blues blink owlishly at him.

“Where are you?” Misty’s voice comes from the phone speaker. She sounds perfectly calm which Sam knows for certain means that she’s anything but.

Sam winces and turns away from Hot Guy so that he can concentrate on the important matter at hand. Today is Rhodey’s wedding.

“Hey Misty. Listen, I’m so sorry. I’m on my way right now.”

“That’s funny, I must have the wrong number” Misty says. “Because that can’t be _Sam_ telling me that he’s running late to his best friend’s wedding. Not after he promised me, to my face, that he would be on time.”

Across the room, Hot Guy sits up in bed and — oh God, it’s even worse than Sam envisioned. The guy is _ripped._

“I’ll be right there, I swear. I got, uh.” He swallows. “Held up.”

“ _Sam_ ” she groans. “I can’t believe you’re making me nag you about this. You know I hate nagging.”

“I’m sorry” Sam says, and he really is. “I promise I’m on my way. I’ll even pick up breakfast.”

“You better be” Misty says, and before Sam can respond she hangs up.

When he turns around, Hot Guy is standing there, bed sheet wrapped around him like a toga. He kind of looks like a Greek god, or at least like he could play a Greek god in a historically inaccurate Hollywood blockbuster, and Sam swallows. Hard.

“Hi” Hot Guy says, and he actually sounds sheepish which is bizarre coming from someone that looks like they were carved out of marble.

“Hi” Sam replies. “Sorry if I woke you, I would usually put my phone on silent but we—”

“—were drunk out of our minds” Hot Guy finishes with an amicable smile. “It’s OK. I prefer not to sleep the day away anyway.”

There’s a brief pause where they just smile at each other, before Hot Guy’s cheeks flush a brilliant red and he looks away embarrassed.

“So, listen,” Sam says after a moment, “this sucks of me but… I’ve got to go.”

“Oh” Hot Guy says, and Sam doesn’t think he’s imagining it when he thinks that he sounds disappointed. “Yeah, of course.”

“It’s just, my friend is getting married today and somehow I managed to stumble into being in the wedding party. Anyway, I’m running really late, so.”

“Yeah, no, I totally understand” Hot Guy says. He’s still just standing there wrapped in the sheet. It’s very distracting.

“This was fun though, right?” Sam says. It comes out as more of a question than he intended, and he starts picking up the stray items of clothing to stop himself from humiliating them both further. “I mean. We should… if you’re ever…”

“Yeah” Hot Guy says, “we should do it again sometime.”

“Cool” Sam says.

“Cool.”

Sam turns and leaves, and he’s halfway out of the door before he realises that he never even asked the guy’s name. He spins around to find Hot Guy still just standing there, watching him, an expectant little smile on his face.

“This is probably going to make me sound like an asshole but…”

“Steve” the guy interrupts before Sam can embarrass himself. “My name is Steve.”

“Steve” Sam repeats, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. “I’m Sam.”

 

*

 

“So” Misty says, once everything’s mostly been set up and they’re hovering innocently by the cupcake stall, waiting for guests to arrive. Sam would never admit it out fear of death, but even in her bridesmaid dress, Misty still manages to look like a bad ass. “Who was he?”

“Who?”

Misty gives him a look. “The guy you obviously got distracted with” she says. “I know you didn’t just sleep in. You never sleep in. It’s the soldier in you. He really must have worn you out.”

“Please don’t do that deduction shit on me” Sam grumbles. “It’s too early.”

“It’s 12pm” Misty says. “Plus it doesn’t take a detective to point out that your neck looks like it was ravaged by a vampire.”

“Does it make you feel good to involve yourself in other people’s business?” Sam asks.

“Yes” Misty replies flatly. “It revitalises me, keeps me looking young. That, and regular moisturising, which is something you should try by the way. You’re looking a little ashy.”

Sam opens his mouth to defend himself but the caterer chooses that moment to burst through the door with a thousand questions about the appetisers that apparently only Misty, as the unofficial wedding planner, can answer.

“Don’t think this is over!” Misty throws over her shoulder as she leaves, and Sam finds himself thinking back to Steve and hoping sincerely that she’s right.

 

*

 

Sam hands Rhodey a flute of champagne because he looks like he needs it.

“So far so good” he says, bumping their shoulder together. He’s learnt to recognise signs of stress in his friends; in Rhodey it manifests in absolute calmness, except for in his eyes, which always seem to automatically seek out Tony. He did it right before he proposed, he did it as he and Tony said their vows and he’s doing it now, as the wedding goes on around them. Tony’s on the other side of the room, schmoozing with rich people, but Rhodey’s eyes are tracking him like a life line.

“Remember when you first introduced us?” Sam asks, because talking about Tony is also a proven calming technique.

“And you thought Tony was a pizza man?” Rhodey says, barely rolling his eyes. It’s an old joke by now, and a look that Sam has been on the receiving end of countless times throughout their friendship; absolute exasperation with only the tiniest hint of fondness.

“In my defence, he was holding a pizza” Sam says. “And you didn’t tell us that he was white. It was unexpected.”

“He’s a world famous billionaire” Rhodey says flatly. “Pardon me for assuming you’d ever picked up a newspaper.”

Sam laughs and all of a sudden Misty and Claire are by his side, ears alert.

“What are we talking about?” Claire asks. She seems to have found the snack table because she’s holding at least six canapés.

“Nothing” Rhodey tells them, at the same time Sam says, “Rhodey’s surprise white man.”

“Oh,” Misty nods. “You mean when he first _Guess Who's Coming to Dinner_ ’d us.”

“ _Guess Who's Coming to Dinner_ is the racist one” Claire says. “You mean _Guess Who._ With Ashton Kutcher and… whats-her-face. Zoe Saldana.”

“Can we not?” Rhodey sighs.

“Yeah, I thought we discussed using the Z word” Misty says. “After that Nina Simone mess it’s She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“I was referring more to the comparisons of my husband and Ashton Kutcher” Rhodey says, smiling coyly as he says the words. _My husband._ “But thanks, Misty.”

“What’s wrong with Ashton Kutcher?” Claire asks. “You used to love Punk’d.”

Sam considers filling them all in on his adventures with his own surprise hot white guy, but decides it’s not worth the eye-rolls he’ll get in response. Besides, this is Rhodey and Stark’s day.

“Stark’s way richer than Ashton Kutcher” he says instead. “So congrats on that.”

Rhodey sighs dramatically. “I’m going to talk to my husband” he says, still smiling despite how put-on he sounds. “You three… make good life choices while I’m gone.”

“Always!” Misty calls after him. They watch him weave his way through the crowd with three matching looks of fondness.

 

It’s that moment that Sam turns and sees him. It’s the shoulders that give it away, really. Nobody looks like that outside of a Calvin Klein campaign, so it’s understandable that Sam’s eyes to drift towards him. He’s standing with a bunch of other white people, presumably from Tony’s side, and he’s wearing a suit that looks like it was tailored just for him. He smiles at Rhodey as he passes by him and Sam’s stomach flips.

“Oh no” he blurts.

“What?” Misty asks immediately, neck snapping up.

“Nothing” Sam says, and tries his damndest not to look in the guy’s direction, lest he drawn any unnecessary attention their way.

“It’s not nothing, you’re sweating. What is it?” Her eyes follow where Sam’s had been across the room and Sam curses her freaky detective skills because she raises an eyebrow. “ _Oh_. Is that…”

“No.”

“And you two—”

“Shut up.”

“What?” Claire asks, craning her head to look. “Who are we talking about?”

“Sam hooked up with that guy over there last night.”

“Misty!”

“Are you denying it?” Misty asks, and sometimes Sam wishes she didn’t know him so damn well.

“ _That_ guy?” Claire asks appreciatively. “Nice. He’s almost as jacked as Luke.”

Misty nudges him. “Go say hello.”

“What? No!”

“Don’t be rude Samuel” Misty says. “What would Mrs. Wilson say, knowing her son has such bad manners?”

“She would understand. You know how many times I’ve caught her ducking behind pillars in Church in order to swerve judgemental old ladies after service?”

“Just go over. It will be more awkward if you don’t.”

“It definitely won’t be more awkward” Sam hisses.

Misty rolls her eyes, then turns towards Steve and shouts in her loudest, most commanding NYPD voice, “ _HEY, BEEFCAKE!”_

About a dozen heads swerve in their direction, including Steve’s, and Misty turns back to Sam, smiling in satisfaction.

“ _Now_ it will be awkward if you don’t” she says and hands him her champagne glass.

 

*

 

“Uh, hey” Sam says awkwardly.

Sam had been hoping that his memory of how good-looking the guy was had been exaggerated in his hung-over brain fog but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Up close, it’s even worse.

“Sam” Steve blinks, surprised. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

“I told you I was going to a wedding, right? Rhodey… uh, James, is one of my best friends” Sam says. He glances over to where Misty and Claire are subtly Not Watching Them, twin devious grins hid behind their drinks. “What about you? What brings you here?”

“Uh, I got a last minute invitation from my friend Natasha” he says, gesturing to a small red-head stood a few feet away, also studiously Not Watching. “She used to work for Tony.”

“Wow” Sam says. “That’s really… It’s a small world, huh?”

“Extremely” Steve says.

Sam lasts about three seconds before he cracks, and they break into embarrassed laughter.

“This is awkward” he admits, and Steve looks relieved to hear so.

“Kind of” he agrees. “It doesn’t have to be though. I really did enjoy myself last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah” Steve smiles. “I mean, it’s not something I usually do…”

“Picking up handsome strangers in bars and then bumping into them in weddings the next day?”

“Right.”

“Well it probably would be weird if it was.”

“Probably” Steve agrees, and for some reason they can’t stop beaming at each other.

“Do you want to dance?” Steve asks abruptly.

Sam raises his eyebrows. It’s not like they’re playing some romantic slow song. The DJ’s a friend of Luke’s and he’s been adamant on not playing – his words – _any of that white shit from Tony’s requests_. Instead they’ve heard _Candy_ at least five times and they’re already well into the midst of the second Luther Vandross medley of the night.

Steve doesn’t seem to be joking though, and his face is endearingly earnest, so Sam laughs and says, “Sure. Lead the way.”

 

*

 

It turns out that Steve can’t dance for shit, but what he lacks for skill he certainly makes up in enthusiasm. A nearby waiter obviously knows what’s up because he keeps handing them champagne glasses, which seems to solve the problem of rhythm once Steve’s about three or four drinks in.

Steve is fun and kind of corny, and Sam finds that he can’t stop smiling around him.

They’ve moved on to Anita Baker slow jams by the time Steve turns to Sam and says, “I need some air.”

“OK” Sam replies. Steve’s cheeks are flushed red and his tie is pulled loose. Sam gets a flash of memory from the night before; he remembers his fingers moving down the buttons of Steve’s shirt, and the noise Steve had made when Sam’s fingers had brushed the soft skin beneath.

“That was an invitation” Steve says, in case Sam’s an idiot, which he is.

“OK” Sam says again.

He resolutely ignores the smug thumbs up Misty sends him as they walk past her.

 

*

 

 

 

 

“So what do you do, Steve?” Sam asks. He’d followed Sam upstairs to the building’s roof and now they’re leaning against the balcony, looking down at the city stretched out beneath them. The breeze is cold against Sam’s cheeks, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s tipsy enough that the champagne is still warm in his chest, and they’re up high enough that Sam feels a little like he’s flying.

“You don’t remember?” Steve asks. It’s playful. There’s a taunting curve to his mouth that Sam can’t tear his eyes from. “You asked me that last night. I told you that I teach art, and you said ‘ _draw me like one of your French girls’_.”

“No I didn’t” Sam says, mortified. “Did I really?”

Steve laughs in delight, and it’s bright and infectious, and Sam feels it echo across the roof top. “I guess you’ll never know” he says.

“You’re fucking with me” Sam says, a little impressed despite himself. He wonders when Steve started standing so close. He can see the light fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the little quirk of his eyebrow.

“I believe the kids call it flirting” Steve says seriously.

“Flirting…” Sam repeats. He can feel himself moving closer involuntarily. Their bodies sway together slightly, but neither makes any attempt to move away. “Never heard of it.”

“Is that why you’re so bad at it?” Steve asks. His fingers have somehow found the loop of Sam’s trousers and Sam feels an ache of want deep down in his gut.

“I can’t believe I’m getting shit-talked by a guy that dances like he was born in 1930” he says, shaking his head.

“Ouch” Steve laughs. His hands move higher, slightly, to rest on the lapels of Sam’s jacket and Sam follows, touches the inside of Steve’s wrist. He maps every movement on Steve’s face: amusement, fondness, the tiniest hint of hesitance.

“I’m going to kiss you now” Sam decides, and there’s the final crack. Relief.

Steve nods, only slightly, and then he’s tumbling down the last few inches to catch Sam’s mouth in his. It’s hungry, and Sam finds himself backed up against the balcony edge, Steve’s hands bracketing his face. He can taste the champagne that Rhodey and Tony had so painstakingly picked, and his fingers brush at the light hairs at the nape of his neck. Sam thinks, dramatically, that he’s never wanted anything so bad before but that can’t be true. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

After a moment they break apart, and then they’re just staring at each other, chests heaving, lips red.

“OK” Sam says after a moment, trying to get his bearings. His heart is beating rapidly inside his chest and he’s trying to find the words to tell Steve to _please_ _never stop doing that again._

Luckily, Steve seems to be once step ahead of him.

“My place?” He says. As if Sam could ever say no.

 

 

*

 

Sam wakes up on a Saturday in April with the mother lode of hangovers, in a bed that’s not his own.

Steve is next to him, shirtless, but this time he’s awake. His eyes are a startling blue, and when he notices Sam, they crinkle into a smile.

“Hi” he says softly, and Sam wants so badly to kiss him.

“I’m getting a little Déjà vu here” Sam says warily. He’s not sure what’s allowed, here, with the morning sun shining through the blinds making everything feel a little more real. “Is this going to be a thing? Hooking up when we’re drunk?”

Steve shrugs. There’s sleep in his eye, and his hair is sticking up in about eight different directions. They both probably stink. “I’m sober now” he says. It’s an offer. It’s loaded. It should not be cute.

And _yet_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me at rooonan.tumblr.com


End file.
